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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27011125">Day. 12 I think I've Broken Something- Broken Bones</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_Surrender/pseuds/Fight_Surrender'>Fight_Surrender</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020 [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood Loss, Canon Related, Mild Gore, One of his first missions, Smol Simon Snow, Whumptober 2020, eleven year old Simon, his thumb gets sliced off, so tw for that, tw blood, tw mild gore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:09:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,039</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27011125</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_Surrender/pseuds/Fight_Surrender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon is in his first year at Watford on one of his first missions for the Mage. After an unfortunate injury, he gets help from an unlikely ally.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020 [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950466</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Day. 12 I think I've Broken Something- Broken Bones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is based on the line in Carry On where Simon casually mentions the fact that Miss Possibelf is "much more likely to notice...if your thumb is hanging on by a thread."  Thanks to @Penpanoply for helping me locate that part. This is a loose interpretation of the prompt, let's assume Simon's thumb bones broke when it got sliced off. </p><p>There is blood loss in this one, so don't read if you're squicky. Or stop reading after Simon's list and start again at "from a clump of weeds." </p><p>Cheers.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Simon</strong>
</p><p>I hate this fucking mission. I know I’m not supposed to use the “f” word, but this is bollocks so I’m going to use it. Who sends an eleven-year-old to a haunted swamp in the middle of nowhere to look for banshees? I don’t even know what they look like, although I guess, I’ll recognize the scream.</p><p>My feet are waterlogged. Everything is soaked in mud and muck. Not even the Humdrum would be caught dead out here. It smells like farts. Worse than the merwolves.  </p><p>I’m cold. I’m wet. I’m miserable. I swipe away another codswallop. Evil buggers. They look like mosquitoes, only they’re the size of kittens. Sorry bloodsuckers, the lot of them. I wonder what Baz is doing right now. Probably in our room, revising like he always is. Listening to that morbid music on his illegal ipod. He probably didn’t even notice I’ve gone, even though I’ve been in this god-forsaken swamp for two days now. He’s probably happy to have the room to himself, the dodgy prat.</p><p>I don’t know why he hates me so much. I’ve been nothing but civil to him, but his posh face seems to freeze into a sneer whenever I’m nearby. I reach into my pocket and squeeze my redball. Mrs. Carson gave it to me. She was so kind. The only person who made me feel special, like I mattered. I hope she’s ok after—what I did.</p><p>They told me everyone was ok.</p><p>The air is thick and heavy, like a wet sweater. I hear a shriek in the distance. I hope it’s the stupid banshee so I can just go back to Watford and get warm. I murmur the incantation for my new sword. It appears at my hip. It’s huge, I can barely hold it up<em>. I can’t believe it comes every time I call it.</em></p><p>I make a list of all the things I own.</p><ol>
<li>My redball.</li>
<li>My sword. <em>Do I own it</em>? The Mage gave it to me, but he said it only comes when you’re worthy. I guess I’m worthy right now.</li>
<li>My wand. The Mage gave me that as well. It’s a family heirloom. He told me I’m not family, but close enough, so I guess that counts. I don’t know why he’s so nice to me, I’m nobody. Only he says I’m<em> somebody</em>. The chosen one. I don’t know what to think about that, so I’m not going to. The wand doesn’t work very well, but it’s mine.</li>
<li>My uniform. Do I own that or does the school own it? It fits me and just me, so I’m going to claim it. I’m not wearing it right now. I’m in a pair of camo fatigues the Mage kitted me out in for the mission. I didn’t know they made fatigues for kids. Go figure.</li>
</ol><p>My foot slides on something slick under the water. I grab a hanging vine to stop myself from falling in the muck. Blinding pain slices through my hand, I pull it away and the place my thumb was is a gaping, red hole, squirting blood. I glance up at the vine and a gullo-teen snickers down at me. It looks like a purple frog with razor sharp pincers where his mouth should be.</p><p>I look down at the murky water and catch sight of my thumb, just as it sinks below the surface. I’m bleeding all over the place. I reach down with my good hand and scoop up the thumb.</p><p>I suppose I should be grateful that the Mage drilled me in field medicine before sending me out on missions. However, this really hurts, so I can’t think straight at the moment. I pull out my wand and attempt a “<strong><em>get well soon</em></strong>.”</p><p>The bleeding slows to a trickle, but the thumb stays stubbornly unattached. I’m a bit surprised I’m not more freaked out right now. But I’m alone, there’s no one here to help, so I better make do. I try another “<strong><em>get well soon</em></strong>.” It’s the only healing spell I remember.</p><p>A few strands of skin bridge the gap between my hand and my thumb. That’s better than nothing. I pull out the first aid kit in my pack and bandage the rest. Hopefully that will hold things together until I can get back to school and someone (Penny? She <em>has</em> been relentlessly nice to me.) who can help.</p><p>From a clump of reeds to my my left, I hear an ear-splitting howl. Then I see what I can only assume is the banshee. She looks like Storm from the Avengers, only like, zombie-er. Thankfully my sword hand still has its thumb, so I cut off her head and stuff it in a sack.</p><p>I’m utterly knackered by the time I make it back to Watford. I drop the head off at the Mage’s office. He patted me on the back and told me I was a good lad. He offered some constructive criticism (his words) about my head removal technique. Said next time he expects a cleaner cut. (less blood staining)</p><p>My legs feel like lead weights as I make my way through the weeping tower. I need a shower and a bed, in no particular order.</p><p>“Mr. Snow,” a small precise voice calls out from an open office door.</p><p>I stop. “Yes ma’am?”</p><p>“Come here please.”</p><p>Miss Possibelf peers at me from behind her desk. Her eyes are just a bit too large for comfort. She's always so calm and still, it's terrifying. “What’s wrong with your hand?” She asks. Her voice is like music.</p><p>“Oh—er, I had a run in with a gullo-teen.”</p><p>“Let’s see then,” she holds out her hand.</p><p>I unwrap the bandage and place my hand in hers. She holds it gently, warm and soft. I don’t think anyone has held my hand before. “Nice try. What spell did you use?”</p><p>“<strong><em>Get well soon</em></strong>,” I murmur. A little proud.</p><p>“Next time try <strong><em>good as new</em></strong>,” she says, clear as a bell. She passes her other hand over mine. Her magic feels like hot tea on a cold day.</p><p>I wiggle my newly attached thumb. “Thank you.”</p><p>“You’re welcome,” she says softly, “now shoo.”</p><p>I do.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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